Trivial
by jeviennis
Summary: When things don't go to plan at the pool, Sherlock has to deal with the mundane prospects of a life without John Watson.


Trivial

When Sherlock goes to identify the body, he doesn't notice all the staff at St. Barts giving him sympathetic looks or sad smiles. He doesn't notice Molly trying to hide her blatant attraction out of respect for the dead, and he doesn't notice Anderson open his mouth to say something, only to close it again. But Sherlock Holmes should notice everything, so anyone that sees him walk down the empty corridors knows that something is very wrong.

He doesn't notice when Lestrade holds the door to the morgue open for him instead of banging it shut behind him. He doesn't even notice when Donovan attempts a sort-of half apologetic glance his way. All Sherlock focuses on is the body bag that lies on a sterilised table in the centre of the room. He barely takes note when Molly backs her way out of the room quietly, pulling the DI and his associates with him. He just pulls on some latex gloves with a snap that resounds around the dimly lit room.

His hands shake slightly as he goes to pull down the zip on the bag. Sherlock vaguely registers that his hands don't normally shake, so this is something quite out of the ordinary. As he pulls the bag down over the shoulders of the deceased, Sherlock winces and turns away. Again, he notes this to be quite unlike himself. He never acts like this with the other bodies. But not all of those bodies are John Watson, and this one is. His eyes sweep over the bare chest of his fallen friend, not a mark upon him. Save the giant bullet wound in his forehead.

Moriarty. Snipers. The pool. Midnight. That's all Sherlock really remembers of that night. Which in itself is odd, because Sherlock Holmes doesn't forget things. Ever. So once again, his usually gleaming mind just dully catalogues that it is in unfamiliar territory. He just sits in his chair watching crap TV, without bothering to try and understand why he is acting so irrationally. Another peculiar thing there. Sherlock does not wait to solve things. He disregards sleep, food and bodily needs to solve things. What he does not do is let something sit at the forefront of his mind and then do nothing about it.

People bring him gifts, but he doesn't even get up off of the sofa to accept. Mrs Hudson just gives him the _not-your-housekeeper-dear _look that she has perfected, then takes them on his behalf. The ten bunches of flowers that Sherlock instantly deduces are from the Tesco Express down the road sit meekly in makeshift vases, because all the pretty ones have been smashed by Sherlock's insane experiments that he used to insist were in the name of scientific breakthroughs. The boxes of chocolates are scattered around the room, unopened, unwanted. The cards with half-hearted attempts at "if you need anything, just call me" scribbled in them are strewn across the fireplace, littering the bookshelves and covering up his laptop. Well, John's laptop. Sherlock just sits there and looks at them, not really reading them. He doesn't want their "deepest sympathies" or their "sincerest wishes". He just wants to be left alone.

He immediately regrets that when Mrs Hudson leaves to visit her sister in Norfolk for the weekend. 221b Baker Street suddenly becomes even colder than it was before, even more vacant that it has been for the last month. Lestrade turns up on the Saturday, not in a suit, just in some old jeans. Talks to Sherlock as a "mate". Tells him that maybe he should look into getting a grief counsellor or take some time off the sleuthing. Until he gets his head back on his shoulders. Sherlock doesn't understand this analogy, so he politely tells Lestrade to bugger off, and, with a sigh, the DI leaves. Although he was annoying, Sherlock finds he misses the brief company that he brought.

Two weeks later, Lestrade goes against his own advice to lay off the detective work and rings Sherlock with a case. Holmes jumps at the chance; Jeremy Kyle was getting boring anyway. He paces round the room, ruffling his hair, staring at the mirror, same as always. But the cards stop him in his tracks, get in his eyeline, distract him. He brushes them off and resumes his pacing. Little things start to pull his focus. Little John things. Like the laptop falling off onto the floor and cracking the screen. The flowers attracting particularly noisy bees. A jumper slung over the back of the armchair that trips him up. Tiny little John things that just catch his eye long enough to remind him that this time, he's doing the case on his own. But there isn't time for that, so Sherlock pushes that to the back of his extraordinarily large brain and presses on.

But there comes a point when Sherlock finds the answer. He whirls around to face the empty house, a grin plastering his thin face.

"John, I've got the answer! It was the-"

And Sherlock then realises, properly, for the first time in exactly seven weeks, that John Watson is dead. And he isn't coming back. He gets a ghastly feeling in his chest, like his heart is shrivelling up. His eyes sting and he almost has to force back tears. In the end, he decides that it is more effort than it is worth, and lets them track down his pale face. His hands are shaking again, but this time it's a whole body thing, like he doesn't have control over his body. Sherlock Holmes always has control over his body.

He sits on the sofa and feels a little lump underneath him. Pulling it out with trembling fingers, Sherlock stares down at the black and white striped sweater and an atrocious noise comes out of his mouth. To him, it sounds like a yowl, or a demonic cry, but to anyone else it was a sob. The feeling in his chest gets worse. It's like his heart is no longer shrivelling, but collapsing in on itself like a dead star, sucking in everything that he'd ever thought had mattered. The work around himself seems meaningless suddenly, trivial. Because John Watson had always made it fun, given him a goal, made all the deducing and running around in long coats seem worth it. If he'd had a life before John Watson, Sherlock couldn't remember it. Didn't want to. Didn't see the point. Then the idea crept upon him, the notion that life seemed rather pointless unless he had John Watson to share it with.

Exactly seven weeks and one day after the death of John Watson, Sherlock Holmes was found dead in John Watson's favourite armchair in 221B Baker Street.


End file.
